


the nights feel longer than i've ever known

by kissteethstainred



Category: Mortal Instruments Series - Cassandra Clare, Shadowhunters (TV)
Genre: Character Study, Established Relationship, M/M, Religious Conflict, a Lot of religious discussion, blood play if you SQUINT, me being fake deep, of sorts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-24
Updated: 2016-04-24
Packaged: 2018-06-04 03:11:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,692
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6638887
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kissteethstainred/pseuds/kissteethstainred
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first thing Raphael says after kissing him is, “Dios,” his voice hoarse and quiet. </p><p>Or: a weird exploration of Simon Lewis, newly admitted to the vampire club, and religion, with a dash of Raphael/Simon and baked at 300 degrees.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the nights feel longer than i've ever known

**Author's Note:**

> i have no idea what i'm doing here, hi.
> 
> SO! i took three years of spanish in high school which of course means i know next to nothing. feel free to correct me on grammar/verb tenses/anything.
> 
> also, i am not jewish. if there is something in here that is incorrect (i.e. specific to a certain sect or not actually true) then correct me on that too.
> 
> aaaand lastly: i read the books ages ago, basically remember nothing, and have no intention of reading them ever again! if anything in this goes against canon . . . . . . . . . you don't need to correct me on that one, i Know
> 
> anyway, i hope you enjoy!

The first thing Raphael says after kissing him is, “ _Dios_ ,” his voice hoarse and quiet. 

The word is lost under another kiss, but for the amount of time they kiss for—Simon truly doesn’t know, they have years, ages, eons, they are immortal, these kisses are _immortal_ —the word “ _Dios_ ” is the only word that Raphael says besides Simon’s name. It’s shocking to hear the two blend together, pressed into Simon’s mouth and clipped against his jaw and cut off by Simon’s lips. 

There’s even one point, when the wall had somehow disappeared and the couch appeared and disappeared and the bed appeared—sometimes Simon thinks Raphael is more than just a vampire—where the words are muttered against Simon’s neck, Raphael’s lips dragging across the skin, his mouth wet and warm. Simon feels it like Raphael had set his teeth there instead. 

The time and kisses continue to pass, until Simon begins to associate his own name with _God_.

\--

The thing about being a vampire is that everything is either stretched very slow or sped up; he and Raphael will walk around the city late at night, and some nights it feels like minutes pass and others it feels like they’ve been out there for years.

“Time disorientation,” Lily tells him, but Simon’s pretty sure she made that up.

And so it means that when Simon is bored, he is bored for what feels like decades. He truly brings new meaning to the phrase _deathly bored_. He knows exactly what it feels like. 

Raphael is the leader of an entire vampire clan, so he can’t spend all of his time with Simon. And since it’s daylight and Simon can’t go outside, he’s stuck inside DuMort. 

Once he ventures outside his room (he loses interest in his guitar pretty quickly, and he has yet to convince Raphael to get either a) wifi or b) some of that fancy Shadowhunter technology in the Institute), DuMort is actually an interesting place. It’s a modern building, but when he walks through it, he sees periods of time flash before him. Raphael’s rooms, for instance, have modern day furniture, but they’re all made of oak to give it an older feeling. Some of the other members of the clan have completely updated to the twenty-first centuries, and others seem to be embracing their (very old) past.

Simon finds himself in the artifacts and relics room. It almost seems like an antique shop, random precious items shoved everywhere, but he knows the objects in this room cost thousands, if not millions, of dollars. Simon thinks mournfully of all the first-edition books he could buy, all the video games he wouldn’t have to miss out on, but refrains from falling into thievery. 

The most popular items seem to be jewelry, clothes, and dining materials. Jewels shine and wink at him, and goblets with gems and stones sparkle in the low dusty light. They have sets of dinner plates made out of gold and silver, drinking glasses made out of what looks like pure crystal. He wonders if dramaticism comes after spending years as a vampire or if that’s what vampires look for in people to sire.

Simon finds himself in a farther corner where the books and archaic texts are kept. Simon’s always been an appreciator of gilded book pages, and he wonders if these were actually dipped in real gold instead of the fake ones he admires at Barnes & Noble. 

He’s too scared to touch any of them lest he makes one crumble to dust—he’s not sure how much Raphael cares about these books, but Simon already knows Raphael would give him a look that says _You Simoned again, didn’t you?_ —so he just glances his eyes off them. He reaches the farthest left bookshelf, covered slightly in cobwebs, and realizes that he’s staring at holy books. There’s a very ancient-looking row of bibles, all bound in leather and carved with intricate sketches and written in Latin. Another row holds the Qur’an, the edges of the pages fraying but the covers styled with beautiful colors—some even have gold in the words on the covers. He’s admiring the different patterns on the two books when he notices the Tanakh. 

Simon exhales for a long moment, and he’s not even thinking anymore when he reaches for the book. The minute Simon touches it, his hands start burning; he pulls them back sharply and stares at the book. 

“That wasn’t nice at all,” Simon tells it, wondering how he can do this. _Raphael_ , he thinks, and sets off. 

When he returns, he’s wearing some of Raphael’s leather gloves, and he picks the book up without burning himself. 

He treats it delicately, perfectly aware of the fact that if he had a human heartbeat and not the slow dragging vampire heartbeat, his heart would be pounding. It’s strange to be out of breath in this body—the only other time he’d experienced it, he’d been kissing Raphael—and when he puts the Tanakh down on the table nearby, he has to take a moment to himself.

Once he’s collected himself, he opens the book about halfway in. Simon’s mother had been religious but never devoutly so. Simon can still remember the joy and pride at his bar mitzvah and the way Hebrew had flowed so easily off his tongue. Clary had been there and he’d tried to teach her some of the words, but the noises she made weren’t even close; Simon had cried laughing.

He’s not fluent in Hebrew, though, so he just glances over the letters and lets himself be comforted by the look of them. There’s something intrinsically more artistic about Hebrew than English, and he flips to a passage that he can actually read.

Only he sees the word _God_ and stops. 

He pauses, pressing his knuckles to the crinkling page of the book, and says, “G—” As usual, an invisible force seems to choke him—choke him from the _inside_ —and he bows his head, disappointed and angry. 

He thinks about Raphael murmuring _Dios_ and thinks maybe it will be different in Hebrew. He takes a deep breath and only manages to say the first letter before he’s choking again. Simon gets irrationally angry, at himself and God and Raphael, damn him, for being able to say God’s name while Simon can’t. Simon is breathing heavily. He tries another route.

God’s name is Unutterable, so Simon says (tries to say), “ _Adon_ —” before he’s cut off again. Infuriated, Simon exclaims, “I am that I am!” and is shocked when his voice actually makes it out into the room, echoing back at him _I am that I am_. It feels like God is trying to speak back to him, and Simon’s breath halts in his throat. _This is what Moses felt like_ , Simon thinks, and his hands are shaking. 

He doesn’t understand at all, doesn’t understand what is so sinful about this body that he cannot say God’s name, but he can say God’s words—God’s explanation of Himself. Simon shuts the book and puts it back in its place delicately; he thinks that maybe he’ll come back on Saturday when his anger has subsided. 

It’s ironic, he thinks to himself, that he becomes more religious when he’s dead. 

\--

Simon finally convinces Raphael to let him have dinner with his family every two weeks or so, and Simon is glad to leave this time—a neighboring vampire clan has been causing trouble lately, and Raphael has to deal with the other clan as well people inside their clan. Simon never knew how hard democracy really was until he listened in on Raphael listening to everyone’s opinions, and he wonders how Raphael doesn’t snap on a daily basis.

Simon catches him in a moment where he’s alone. Raphael’s posture says _I don’t want to talk_ and Simon’s already running late, so Simon says, “Alright, I’m heading off,” and kisses Raphael goodbye. Or, rather, Raphael seems to allow Simon to kiss him, but he doesn’t do anything in response.

Simon flicks him on the forehead and says, “Hey. I’m heading off.”

“I _heard_ you.”

“Well, you didn’t kiss me goodbye. In fact, that was a very shit kiss goodbye.”

Raphael’s mouth twists into a bitter smile. “Vampires are usually not the ones leaving, Simon.”

Simon’s gut churns at his words, and he wonders if he’ll be like that in fifty, sixty, seventy years, when all his mundane friends and family die and any new ones he makes will just be the same. He doesn’t want to address that, so instead he says, “Your bad mood ranks on a seven out of ten tonight. Sex when I get back?”

Raphael levels a glare so _done_ that Simon wonders how he doesn’t die again from it. “You are unbelievably annoying,” Raphael says, but when he leans back the tension has left his body and Simon grins.

“The offer is still on the table,” Simon says, and when he kisses Raphael, this time Raphael kisses back. “The clan will thank me for it, I think.”

Simon receives a hard bite to his chin for the comment and he hisses at the sharp feel of Raphael’s teeth. When he pulls back, Raphael is grinning. 

“Thank you for being such a martyr,” he says, and then, “ _Sal de aquí_.” 

Simon’s feeling like some FBI agent who knows how to deescalate a bomb threat—meaning he feels pretty fucking good. 

His mother notices when he enters, smiling at him and kissing both cheeks. “What’s put you in such a good mood, then?”

Simon has resolved to never mention a) the vampire thing and b) the _Raphael_ thing to his mother. She’s not staunchly homophobic or anything, but Simon doesn’t really know her opinion on any kind of gay thing. 

“It’s, uh,” Simon says, and thinks _shit come up with something shit she’s gonna assume_ , “It’s just, um, there’s this—”

It’s too late, though, because his mother grins and says, “Simon, really? Are you in a relationship?”

He manages to say (rather loudly), “Not until Rebecca’s here!” and his mother thankfully agrees.

To his surprise, when Rebecca is seated and his mother jumps immediately into Simon’s dating life, Simon’s mother is not at all bothered by the fact that Simon is dating a guy. She is surprised, but she smiles and says, “Well, I always knew someone would snatch you up,” and Simon says, “ _Mom_.” 

He’s surprised, however, that she isn’t bothered by him dating a guy, but she is bothered because—

“He’s _Catholic_?” his mother exclaims. 

“Uh,” Simon says, glancing at Rebecca. “Yes, he is.”

Simon’s mother raises her eyebrows and starts cutting her steak a little more vigorously. 

“Is that a problem?” Simon asks mildly. “I didn’t think, um, having a Catholic boyfriend would be a problem.”

“Think of your children, Simon, how are you going to raise them?”

Rebecca starts laughing at Simon’s panicked face, but his mouth twitches when he thinks about what Raphael would be like with children. 

“It could be worse, Mom,” Rebecca says, and Simon is pretty sure that she’s a saint. “His boyfriend could be an atheist.”

“Or a Satanist,” Simon adds, pointing his fork at his sister. He’s managed very successfully to discard of the food on his plate without actually eating it, and he’s quite proud about that.

Rebecca says, “He could be a Druid.”

Simon, who has actually now met a Druid since his introduction into the undead life, decides not to add onto that—the Druid had been very nice (as well as intimidating). 

“It’s seriously not a problem, Mom,” Simon says, realizing he’s taking this a little too seriously. “I mean, we share some similar prophets and historical figures, and we share forty-six books of the Old Testament together.” His mother doesn’t look any more impressed, so Simon does what he usually does: attempts to switch to comedy. “I mean, the only truly annoying thing is when he gets up early Sunday morning for mass and it wakes me up, you know?” 

Never mind that Raphael can’t go to mass in the morning, but now Simon has resolved to never mention a) the vampire thing and b) the _Raphael_ vampire thing. Or even simple things, like Simon can’t eat his favorite meal cooked by his mother and he can’t say God’s name anymore.

Talk about taking the Lord’s name in vain. 

“Simon, I get it,” his mother says. “You’re right, I’ll just—you couldn’t find a nice Jewish boy?”

Rebecca laughs. “It was hard for Simon to find nice Jewish girls, I don’t think finding Jewish boys makes it any easier.”

Simon throws a piece of meat at her (another effective way of getting rid of food) and says, “ _Hey_.” 

“Besides, if he’s as religious a Catholic as Simon says, then he’s probably a very nice guy, you know? Morally upstanding and all that.”

Simon’s throat constricts. He tries not to think of the bag of blood they’d shared before Simon had come over, so that Simon wasn’t tempted to drink either member of his family. Blood had caught at the corner of Raphael’s mouth and Simon had kissed it off. _Morally upstanding_. 

“We’ve analyzed me enough for this evening,” Simon says, trying to keep his voice light. “Let’s move onto Rebecca.”

“Fine,” his mother says. “But next time you come over for dinner, invite your Raphael along, too. I’d love to meet him.”

“Love your enemies and all that,” Rebecca says, and laughs when Simon tells her that’s technically not from the Hebrew scripture. 

“Since when did you become an expert?” his mother asks.

“Recently,” Simon says, and his stomach twists at the fact that he’s perfected his forced smile. 

\--

Simon can understand that eighty percent of the reason he hadn’t liked Jace was because of their mutual affection for Clary, but now that he had moved away from those childhood feelings, Jace’s presence didn’t bother him that much.

Except tonight, he’s finding out what the other twenty percent is.

He and Clary met for dinner tonight, because that’s the only time Simon can really hang out anymore. Eating is a social thing, and dinner is the only time Simon can spend time with others even though he doesn’t eat. It’s quite the struggle.

Anyway, he and Clary were supposed to have dinner, but apparently (according to Jace (and even Clary)), there’s been an increase in demon activity lately and Shadowhunters shouldn’t be going out alone. Simon understands that, and of course he wants Clary safe, but he wishes it was Isabelle instead of Jace, because of this: Clary spends half her time talking and smiling with Jace while Simon ignores his food.

And Simon doesn’t want to be mean or petty, but he misses his best friend. Not that he never wanted Clary to have friends outside of him—he’d prepared for that when they were heading off to college—but there’s a difference between having friends in college and being able to see each other regularly compared to having friends that are apparently higher status than your dead, Downworlder status is. And it sucks.

Simon’s glad Clary has other friends. He just misses the feeling of _best friends_. 

Clary’s telling him a story about Isabelle trying to each Clary to use the whip and how miserably she’d failed when Jace starts laughing, says, “ _God_ , that was so funny.”

 _God_ , he says. _By the Angel_ , he says. _For God’s sake_ , he says. 

As Jace continues his part of the conversation, Simon—already angry by his dinner with Clary being interrupted—snaps, “Can you stop saying that?”

Jace raises his eyebrows at him. “Stop saying what?”

If Simon was still a mundane, he would’ve been flushing, intimidated by Jace’s obvious ease and confidence in everything he does, even threatening. Now, his anger spikes more, because Simon _can’t say_ what he wants Jace to stop saying. 

“You know what,” Simon says. 

Jace grins. “Don’t feel too bad about it,” Jace says. “I have literal angel blood in me; it’s no wonder that God allows me to say his name.”

Clary cuts him a sharp look and says, “ _Jace_ ,” in a scathing done; Simon is grateful for it, because if his words would’ve been as nice as that. 

Clary and Jace continue their story, but Simon’s still stuck on it. Because of course—infuriatingly—Jace is right. Here Simon sits, in a body that shouldn’t be possible, that’s sinful in so many ways. Jace has all his gifts and powers from his angel blood, while Simon has his powers from drinking various human blood. Simon feels sick, and his annoyance rises even more. He wonders if this is how Raphael feels most of the time.

And stranger is the fact that Simon can feel Raphael’s teachings come in—he’s looking at Jace laughing at something Clary said and knows exactly what he’d do. Jace is unprepared, but he would react quickly. _Go for their weapon of choice first_ , Raphael said, and he knows where Jace keeps his sword. He’d lunge there first, trying to get it out of Jace’s hands, then he’d go for something debilitating—break a leg. Jace could power through broken ribs and arms, but legs would make it harder. But Jace is one of the top warriors, and the only thing Simon has on his side is surprise and speed—even with Jace’s Shadowhunter speed, Simon is faster—and so he’d have to take Jace down the _second_ the sword is out of his hand—

“ _Simon_ ,” Clary says, her voice high pitched and piercing through his daze. 

For a second, he’s confused as to why she sounds so worried, and then he realizes that his fangs came down. Clary and Jace are both staring at him apprehensively. 

So that’s what Raphael meant when he said, _Simon, you’ll have to work on your emotions as well_. Just working on his physical powers did nothing if he was ready to lunge at someone’s throat because they made him angry.

“I have to go,” Simon says, still angry and now upset at himself for failing everything and everybody. Clary protests, but Jace meets Simon’s eyes and holds her back with one arm; Simon is immeasurably grateful that Jace understands him in this moment.

He walks home, shaking his head at himself, running his finger over his fangs the entire way back.

\--

Raphael can tell his mood the second he gets back to DuMort, and he pulls the story out of Simon once they’re locked away in Raphael’s room.

Raphael, once Simon has finished his story, is predictably unsympathetic to Simon’s plight. 

“You’d be able to say it if you practiced,” Raphael says, tilting his head to the side slightly.

“I have been!” exclaims Simon hotly, by which means that he says it once, gets upset when he chokes, and then doesn’t say it for another week in his annoyance. 

Raphael shrugs. “Have you?” He hates that Raphael doubts him, that he’s given Raphael a reason to doubt him. Raphael smiles at Simon’s defiant expression and waves a hand towards him. “Well then, say it.”

Simon presses his lips together and stares at the wall of the room. He’s already upset and doesn’t want to do this. He says, almost pleading, “Raphael.”

Raphael seems surprised for a moment before face softens. He clearly wasn’t expecting to hear his own name instead of God’s, but Simon thinks it’s a small thing compared to how many times Raphael has done it to his own name. The way he says _Simon_ sometimes is the exact way he says _Dios_ : quiet but sure, reverently, like the whispers of a prayer, as soft as the gentle way Raphael fingers his cross—like he’s unworthy.

Raphael says softly, with a little more understanding, “Simon, say it.”

Simon closes his eyes, and—

Well, what did Raphael really expect?

\--

Simon gets slammed down on the cold floor for the fourth time in twenty-five minutes.

“ _Again_ ,” Raphael snaps after muttering in Spanish, obviously annoyed. “Simon, focus this time.”

Simon doesn’t dignify that with an answer, since Liz is already circling Simon again and ready to pounce. He can feel a subtle shift when she decides where she’s going to attack, so he sets his body up for defense and braces himself for when she lunges. 

He’d originally been practicing with Raphael as his teacher, but Raphael had decided that Simon needed to fight someone else to get different fighting styles, and Liz had been the first one called up. She’s one of the best fighters in the clan, and Simon is quickly learning how much the floor likes him.

He manages to get a couple of punches in before swiftly moving away, trying to think what to do next—what has Raphael taught him?—and only has seconds before she’s coming at him, this time for his left side. Simon blocks her, pushes her back, and she goes down hard. Only Raphael usually stopped after this, pleased that Simon managed to defend himself, but Liz doesn’t. She rolls with her landing, and in the next breath, Simon’s on his back again, his legs swept out under him by Liz’s feet.

Simon scrubs his hands over his face as he sits up, already hearing Raphael’s angry muttering again. Lately Simon has been thinking about learning Spanish (it’s not like he doesn’t have time) so that he can hear what Raphael is saying.

Raphael moves in closer to them. “Simon, you’re not focused today, and you can’t have a single day where you’re not ready. This isn’t some fucking joke. That right there, you being thrown to the floor? That wasn’t Liz or me defeating you in a friendly fighting match. That was another vampire clan fighting us, and you’d be dead. That was a Shadowhunter attack by Shadowhunters who aren’t your pretty little friends, and you’d be dead. That was a demon attack, and you’d be dead. _Again_. Do you understand this?”

Simon clenches his jaw while Raphael talks, trying to calm his breathing. He understands, but he’s just fucking tired of it. He’s tired of everything—tired of drinking blood every day, tired of never seeing the sunlight, tired of missing his friends and family, tired of being yelled at and thrown around and treated like a child, tired of it _all_. 

He knows he shouldn’t, but he can’t quite stop himself from saying, “Well, it’ll be easy for me to defeat a human, won’t it?” 

Before Simon can even blink, Raphael is on him. He pins Simon to the floor, his hand pushing Simon’s face into the floor. Raphael leans in close, his fangs protruding from his mouth, and poises them close to Simon’s throat.

“If I hear something like that from you again, I will not hesitate to throw you out, _¿lo comprendes?_ ” Raphael says, and whatever clan leader power Raphael is using _works_ , because Simon whines. He’s had Raphael’s mouth so close to his neck before, but it’s never felt like this—like Simon will truly die if Raphael’s fangs touch his skin, like he’s hanging onto life by a single thread, like a strong pressure is pushing down on his throat.

“I understand,” Simon rasps, and Raphael eases off of him. Simon coughs, rubbing at his throat. Raphael stares at him before flicking his fingers at Liz, a clear dismissal. She walks away, muttering about a lover’s spat. 

After a pause where Raphael looks behind them to see that Liz has really left, Raphael says quietly, “Simon—”

Simon pushes past him without saying a word, walking until he leaves the hotel.

\--

Simon keeps walking through the city streets. He knows he shouldn’t, since anything could come attack him, and as Liz just proved, he’s not exactly ready for it. But he’s so frustrated about everything, frustrated that he can never learn enough or do well enough to please Raphael, frustrated that he keeps getting rejected by his religion, frustrated that he can’t tell if the Raphael before him will be his boyfriend or _whatever_ they are or if it will be his clan leader, frustrated and worried he’ll never get the hang of this. 

His walking slows down to something more leisurely, and without realizing it, he finds himself in front of a synagogue.

Simon stares at it, his feelings tumultuous. It’s 3 a.m. and there’s no way the synagogue is open—having no circadian rhythms anymore really mess up the time for Simon—and he could break in easily, but it’s his temple of worship and there’s no way he’s doing _that_.

Instead he walks up to the door and bracingly places his hand on it. A burn doesn’t come, which he really should’ve known—it’s just wood. It’s like when Raphael had forced Simon to touch his cross. Simon had glared at Raphael for basically making Simon burn himself, but when he touched it, it didn’t burn at all.

“You’re not Catholic,” Raphael had said plainly, tucking his cross back into his shirt. It was momentarily distracting. “Touch a Star of David, however, and it won’t be as kind.”

He runs his fingers down the wood of the door and then turns away, lets his legs collapse underneath him until he’s all the way down the door and is sitting on the concrete step. He folds himself into a praying position, his elbows on his knees, hands pressed together, forehead against his hands. He mutters one of the only prayers he truly knows fully in Hebrew, says _Adonai_ in his mind because he can’t say it out loud, and tries to calm his mind for prayer.

In the end all he can think is: _God, why have you abandoned me?_

Truly, he thinks, he must have done something wrong. He died but did not go to the afterlife, and now he lives in a body that seems endless in its sins—drenched in blood, in human blood, and he has killed only enough to complete one hand, but he knows he’ll have to kill more. This body doesn’t die, and he wonders when it finally does—killed, maybe, in two hundred years or so—if he can see whatever afterlife has for him, or if nothing will happen.

 _Your holy book burns me,_ Simon thinks, _and I cannot even say your name when I try to pray. I cannot enter your holy temple for any type of day services. I cannot fast or diet because I cannot eat. What have I done? I did not want this_. 

Simon takes a deep breath. He wonders how being a vampire and being Jewish could possibly intersect in his life. He also realizes that all of his frustration and stress has built into his breakdown on the synagogue’s steps this night, but he can’t help but feel sorrow for what he cannot do. 

_Yet_ , he tells himself. _Raphael can do it now, and you just have to wait—_

But he doesn’t want to wait. He wants to be able to say his prayers without choking or gasping, he wants to be able to read from the Tanakh without snatching his hand back. 

He wants harder things, too. He wants to be able to go out in sunlight again. He wants to never see any of his family and friends age and die. He wants to be a nerdy, mundane college kid again. He wants Raphael to get fucking wifi or _something_. 

He thinks of Raphael for a moment, then thinks furiously: _Not him. I won’t feel shame or guilt over being with him_. 

And the though of Raphael has Simon uncurling himself and staring at the stars. It really is late, and Raphael will be worrying. Simon runs a hand through his hair and stands. He touches the wooden doors one more time, promises that he’ll be back for a night service, and walks back to DuMort. Walks back home.

\--

Raphael is waiting for him at the entrance.

He’s leaning against the door, completely nonchalant. He’s wearing sweatpants and a loose sleep shirt, which is a combination Simon has seen him in many times before, but he’s never seen it outside of DuMort. Even if it’s ass o’clock in the morning and no one is around.

Simon expects the ass tearing of his _life_ —he ignored Raphael, ran away, and disappeared for hours without making any sort of contact. He’s pretty sure he’s going to be locked in a coffin for two weeks.

Except Raphael just says nothing and opens his arms. Simon’s throat constricts with emotion and he steps into them, releasing a shaky sigh when Raphael’s arms come around him. 

“What’s wrong?” Raphael says into Simon’s hair. 

“I went to a synagogue,” Simon says, and Raphael’s arms get tighter. Simon wants to fall asleep in Raphael’s arms and wake up when all the bullshit is over. Simon adds, “I’ll try to be better.”

“Shut _up_ ,” Raphael says. “What do you want?”

Simon closes his eyes, fingers grasping Raphael’s shirt. “Take me to bed.”

\--

Once they’re locked away in Raphael’s room, once Simon has changed into some of Raphael’s clothes, once he’s crawled into the bed, once Raphael has joined him, pressing up against Simon’s back—

Simon doesn’t actually fall asleep.

He feels like he needs to explain more. He turns in Raphael’s arms so that they’re facing each other; there’s hardly an inch between them. 

Simon says, “It’s just . . . we feel human emotion so _strongly_.”

Raphael’s eyes open. “Simon,” Raphael says, and Simon knows that’s where he’d usually mutter _idiota_. He prefers his name. “We are not monsters. What makes humans separate? Their higher learning and intelligence?” Raphael’s mouth presses against Simon’s forehead, and Simon closes his eyes at the gentleness of it. “We’re human. We’re just not _mundane_.” 

Simon’s throat works for a moment. He doesn’t say: _and being a Downworlder is so much better?_ Instead he says, “I just feel like He’s abandoned me.”

Raphael pauses, and he moves his mouth over Simon’s forehead again as he sighs. Then: “In the first couple years after I turned, I was still religious, and quite like you were. Couldn’t hold my cross, couldn’t hold my rosary, couldn’t say God’s name, couldn’t go to Mass. I felt horrible, like I really would’ve rather died than become this.

“One year I was able to go to an Easter Mass because they were holding a service at night. I was overjoyed. Easter is the most important holiday, and as someone who had resurrected from the dead, all I wanted was to go. I hardly heard the homily . . . All I wanted was _la eucaristía._ Specifically I wanted the wine, because when the priest held up the chalice, he said, ‘Take this, all of you, and drink from it, for this is the chaliceof my Blood.’”

 _Oh_ , Simon thinks, and he presses his nose against Raphael’s chin in sympathy. 

“And that’s all I could think about: drinking Jesus’ blood. I knew that once I did I would be forgiven, that Jesus would understand me. I had to force myself to only drink a small portion of it so that others may drink it as well. And the second that wine touched my lips, I felt pure again. I was forgiven and a child of God again.” Raphael’s arms tighten around Simon’s waist and he gives a sardonic laugh. “Two hours later I threw it all up. I was devastated, so devastated I swore off God for . . . I don’t know how long it was then. Nothing, in all the life I’ve lived, and yet . . . far too long.”

“How did you get back?” Simon whispers, his voice hoarse. He’s suddenly so envious of Raphael, and he digs his fingers into Raphael’s back and breathes in the scent of his neck—the scent of blood is strangely alluring. 

Raphael says, “I went in for another late night Mass for some reason. The homily was on abandonment, and my priest mentioned how Jesus, nailed to the cross, asked God, ‘My God, why have you forsaken me?’ And I just thought that if Jesus, who was the Son of God, who knew God’s plan, felt abandoned . . . It must be natural for me too. I’ve never let go of my faith since.”

Raphael kisses Simon before Simon can speak, arranging Simon so that his face is pressed into Raphael’s neck. 

“ _Duerme_ ,” Raphael murmurs. “ _Espero que tengas sueños más dulces que éste_.” 

\--

Raphael wakes up before Simon, but this time he doesn’t get up, just rests in bed until Simon wakes. Simon groans, stretching his limbs out, and rests his head back on Raphael’s arm.

“I’ve been thinking,” Simon says. 

“In your sleep? Doubtful.”

Simon ignores this. “The Israelites took forty years to get to the Promised Land, and in those forty years they did all kinds of wrong, but they were still the Chosen People.” Simon lifts his hand from where it’s resting on Raphael’s stomach and traces Raphael’s muscles up to his collarbone. “I suppose I could wait that long as well.”

Raphael doesn’t say anything, so Simon looks up at him. Raphael’s expression is one of surprise. Simon grins and exclaims, “I’ve impressed you!”

“No, you’re—”

“An _idiota_ , yes, I know,” Simon says with glee. “That’s stopped having an effect on me ages ago.” 

Raphael has that look on his face like he’s trying not to laugh at Simon’s pronunciation. Simon spares him the trouble of coming up with a response by kissing him. Raphael kisses him back immediately, rolling them over so that his body presses Simon down into the mattress. Simon moans into his mouth and drags his hands up into Raphael’s hair. 

Later, Raphael will suck a bruise (that will heal almost instantly) onto Simon’s neck, and Simon will attempt to choke out an _Oh, God, Raphael_ and he’ll be stopped halfway through. 

But after that—way after that—they’ll lay pressed together from head to toe and the room will smell like sex and sweat and Raphael will mouth along Simon’s shoulder and mutter, “ _Dios_ ,” and it will be enough. 

**Author's Note:**

> song title is from "america" by xylo (do you even know how tempting it was to use take me to church? SO TEMPTING).
> 
> you can catch up w/ me [here](http://williamanderly.tumblr.com/)


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